


The Old Switcheroo

by JeanjacketCarf



Category: Angel: the Series, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Magic and Machines, Not 2004, Not Canon Compliant, Timeline Shenanigans, tries to be but isn't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:53:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanjacketCarf/pseuds/JeanjacketCarf
Summary: It's so old it might as well be trite. Those classic elements of ancient deities, alternate universes, doppelgangers, and the vast forces beyond our comprehension who control fate itself. Honestly, Angel and the gang should have expected this. Unfortunately, Team Machine is a little out of its depth.





	The Old Switcheroo

**Author's Note:**

> This takes someplace between "Shells" and "Underneath" in Ats season 5 but might not match up with where all the characters were at that point.

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce dodged out of the way of some kind of possessed box flying across the lobby of Wolfram & Hart and the intern scrambling after it. His arms were full of ancient tomes, some written in Gaelic and Archaic Latin and some in numerous demon dialects. One seemed to be written in a numeric cipher of Sumerian. None, he had the sinking feeling, would help him in doing away with the current bane of his existence, the demon god who had stolen the love of his life away from him. The one Angel, their great and fearless leader, was too weak to destroy when he had the chance. He made his way up to his office. Its many glass walls covered with heavy, dark shades. He kept his head low, hoping no one would catch his eye and force him into a conversation. He was only able to breathe a sigh of relief when he slammed the door closed behind him. He opened his eyes to scan the room and not for the first time, his heart froze in his chest. Facing away from him, rifling through his filing cabinet was Fred. Or at least the shape of her. Anger bubbled through his blood as soon as he could breathe again. He dumped the books on the desk with a loud bang. Her head jerked up, gaining her attention where his entrance had not. Illyria looked at him with her usual lack of comprehension though she still wore Fred’s form. He tried not to bite his own tongue as his jaw clenched.  
“What did I tell you about looking like that?” His voice came out sharp and impossibly loud in the nearly empty space of the room. The hurt in it was painfully obvious and Wesley couldn’t keep himself from wincing.  
Illyria for her part didn’t even flinch. She cocked her head to the side and watched him. Slowly, a smirk turned up the corner of her mouth. Wesley's stomach turned. It was a very un-Fred-like expression.  
“Excuse me, sir, I think you must be confusing me with someone else,” she drawled. It was a new voice, one he hadn’t heard before. Deeper than Fred’s and without the Texan twang. More sarcastic and less archaic than Illyria. Maybe she was trying on a new human identity, not Fred but also not blue. It made sense but he preferred the unnatural blue skin and eyes, they did a lot to disguise Fred’s face.  
“Look I don’t know what game you’re playing but don’t play it with me!”  
She frowned then or rather pouted.  
“I’m sorry, honey, but it doesn’t seem like this conversation is going anywhere and I’m in a bit of a hurry.”  
Before he could ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, her hand which had been hidden behind the desk swung up with something heavy and black in its grip. Then next was only pain and darkness.

 

Metallic clattering over and over again. A scraping sound and then a bang. Thud, thud, thud. Wesley screwed his eyes closed tighter and tried to inch away from the sound. His arms and legs had fallen asleep and the movement sent painful pins and needles through them along with a wave of nausea. His jaw was stretched and sore, his tongue dry and full of hot fuzz and the taste of sweat. Dried blood stuck his tender scalp to the carpet. It was best not to even think about his head. He blinked his eyes open, wincing at the bright lights. He was lying on his side, trussed up with electrical wire under his own goddamn desk. It was also likely that the thing shoved in his mouth was his own sock since one of his feet was bare. Their very own resident god-thing stared down at him from his desk chair. He was just now realizing that she was dressed in loose-fitting scrubs and a lab coat like she’d stolen the clothes from the lab downstairs. Which was odd seeing as Illyria had always been able to magic up that sort of thing. She smiled down at him. It was not a friendly smile.  
“Oh good, you’re awake. I was starting to think I’d done some permanent damage. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we? At least not until I get the answers I need.”  
He glanced over at his desktop computer, smoking and cracked in the corner. She followed his gaze and rolled her eyes.  
“Oh, I got a little carried away, I suppose. Seriously no internet access? How do you live? Of course, I’ve had my run of your closed system. So I know all about you, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and honestly, could a name be any more British? And your stupid little code. Was that your idea? The demons and vampires and that shit? A little too whimsical for my taste.”  
Wesley’s mind raced. Since when did Illyria understand computers? And why was she pretending she didn’t know his name or about demons? For god’s sake, she was one.  
She pulled her feet off the desk and planted them on the ground. They were bare. How long had she been running around like this? She leaned down into the space beneath the desk where he was stuffed and pointed a gun at him, no doubt the thing that had put the dent in his head.  
“Now are you going to be a good little boy and keep quiet or am I going to have to put a bullet in your kneecap?”  
She looked at him as if she expected him to respond with a sock balled up in his mouth. Their eyes met. She raised her eyebrows at him expectant. Slowly, he nodded.  
“See was that so hard?” She dug forward and ripped the gag from his mouth. “Sorry about the accommodations but I was low on supplies.”  
Wesley spat out a ball of fuzz onto the carpet.  
“Illyria, what is this?”  
She rolled her eyes.  
“You see what I’ve been trying to tell you, Wes is that I’m not who you think I am. Or who you want me to think you think I am anyway.”  
“Fred?” He nearly choked on the word.  
“No! Wrong again. Seriously, do you have that facial blindness thing? Because this shouldn’t be this hard.”  
“You know me,” he insisted.  
“No, Wesley, I don’t. All I know is that I’m somewhere that’s claiming to be a law office except it has an armory and a morgue in the basement. Instead of answers, this place is full of a crazy Englishman and what is this? Cuneiform?” She held up one of his texts before tossing it unceremoniously in the waste basket. Wesley grimaced.  
“Sumerian, actually. You can’t read it?”  
“No, why should I?”  
Just before he could articulate his theories about repressed personalities and ghost possessions the door to his office crept open.  
“Wes?” It was Angel with just his head peering in. He and Wesley had been on rough terms lately and it showed in his hesitation at the door. “Hey, Wes, Gunn said you were in here?”  
He stepped forward into the room and let the door close behind him. Whoever it was in Fred’s body leaned down to press a finger to his lips before standing up to meet Angel, gun in hand.  
“Illyria?”  
“Angel, watch out!” Wesley shouted from the floor.  
Angel took a step back, startled.  
She looked like Fred but he had seen Illyria take that form before. Still, it made his skin crawl to see it. Reminded him that it had been his choice not to save her. To let her very soul be consumed by an Old One. It had also been his decision to keep the monster around. Now he wondered if that had been the right call.  
“What’s going on?”  
She shook her head as if scolding a small child.  
“Oh, Wesley and here I thought we were getting along so well.” And fired two shots into Angel’s knee. Searing pain raced through him and he rolled to keep from falling on the injured leg. He fought down the demon in him, keeping from vamping out but not preventing a growl from passing his lips. He took a breath and heaved himself up on his feet again.  
Wes was wiggling out from behind the desk, hog tied like at a rodeo. Angel wondered if that came from Fred’s Texan roots and instantly regretted it. Forget Fred, he told himself, she’s dead. You killed her. Like so many before her.  
“Now, Illyria, that wasn’t very nice,” he growled.  
She watched him curiously like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.  
“Well, aren’t you interesting.”  
Two more bullets hit him, one in each shoulder. This time he hardly stumbled though he could feel his fangs growing. Why was she playing around? Illyria knew he was a vampire and that this wouldn’t stop him. She took a step back as he stepped forward. Something like concern crossed her face then determination.  
“Well, I’m sure in this case she wouldn’t mind.” She smiled and emptied the entire clip into his chest.  
Now he didn’t keep his face from contorting as he dove forward.


End file.
